Memorabilia
(Note from the author’s son: I found this seemingly unfinished draft and felt compelled to publish it – with the date he last edited it.)
Danny collected the face masks of dead goalies
and was known
Concession Speak
I wish Sleepy Joe the best.
Be assured I hid a pest
somewhere in the office walls
which responds to twitter calls.
You’d better change the old nuke code,
in case I get in launching mode.
It only takes small ammo fare
to destroy all Delaware.
You do love trains, Old Sleepy Joe.
So I’ll bomb tracks before I go.
I’ll stir up so damned much trouble,
you’ll plead for Obama’s bubble.
Moscow Mitch will have your ass.
And not one Senate bill will pass.
Proud Boys in each Dem big city,
get your guns. This won’t be pretty.
I held back one airborne plague.
They say my effort was vague.
Yes, there’s something up my sleeve.
I’ve got germs you won’t believe.
Here’s a tube marked ‘Red Death Core’
I’ll release in Baltimore.
Philly, which sure disappointed,
will with ‘kill flu’ be anointed.
Of my last act I’ll now boast:
“Giant Earthquake Ends West Coast!”
Libs will scream, “No More! No More!”
And I’ll return in twenty-four.
Our Little Proud Boy
We’re so proud of our little Proud Boy.
He’s only eight, but he knows who to hate
and how to shoot. He’s got the arm patch.
And his collection of supremacist memorabilia
could make a nazi drool. We do home school.
His biggest dream is to grow up and play
with the big boys in the coming segregation wars.
And he was so excited by the call out tonight
by our great president, that he peed his pants.
He’ll take that out on some poor bastard someday.
Insurrection Act II
Rotund king in gold bodysuit enters right,
tips his hair, tells a few one-liner lies, exits left,
very slowly, down a small ramp, trips, rolls offstage.
Four elderly white men in turtle suits march in, singing:
” Our king is a good man who hates bad protestors,
who’ll team up with Q to undo all molesters.
If you vote against him, you’re worse than wet worms.
Your house will soon be sprayed with pandemic germs.”
They exit, slowly, right, toward a sign that reads “SWAMP.”
Rotund king reemerges, plumps into a large gold throne.
Attorney General dances a shuffle before him in a cat suit.
He licks the milk the king has left him in a golden bowl, pauses, sings:
” Our king can’t be bothered with things like elections.
He’s too busy making his golf club selections.
There is no pandemic. It’s all an illusion.
Now I must get back to my Russian collusion.”
He huffs off in enormous cat’s feet, heads to the right.
Rotund king spray paints his face, picks up his gold phone,
punches buttons with a flourish and screams “Hello Pooty!”
Vlad the Inhaler enters from the east, bare chested, chants:
” Your king does my bidding, yes, but it’s for your protection.
There’s no way to stop him now. This is the resurrection.
Anyone who dares oppose will soon be wearing fetters.
Russia and USA merge. You just add three new letters.”
He mounts a small trojan horse and rides off tossing condoms.
Rotund king stands atilt, waving a MAGA handkerchief goodbye,
summons his family, a princess, knave, joker, handmaid and geek.
Queen Melanin struts on stage in a jacket that says, “F-Off!” and sings:
” My man loves grabbing pussies and boning porn stars.
He says he’ll be first to put women on Mars.
He told me be best and that means always looking pretty.
If I get wrinkles, he’ll send me off to anarchist city.”
She flounces offstage right to whistles and wolf calls from backstage.
Rotund king, sweating copiously, stands, dripping puddles on the boards.
He picks up a bible, holds it up, sets it afire. Repeats with the Constitution,
then, at center stage, winds a red tie about his head like a bandana, screams:
” You’ll never be rid of my golden fleece face.
When the time’s right, my kids will take my place.
Nothing you do can stop my tyranny.
Wave bye-bye now to your land of the free!”
He ties on a stars-and-stripes cape, floor-length, and shuffles off, leering.
Paramilitary ushers storm the aisles and the audience is arrested. Finis.
XXX Pillow
They say that Jeffrey Epstein was smothered by My Pillow.
His ashes will be spread on Pedo Isle.
That’s if they find his body, last seen in Amarillo,
and probably headed southward for a while.
They say a lot of famous folks spent time at Jeff’s resort.
Word has it that shuffleboard was not the favorite sport.
Perhaps a My Pillow propped on every cabin bed
could be used to suppress screams when placed over a head.
These were small heads, must remember, outsized by My Pillow.
Go to sleep, my little beauty. Rest, my weeping willow.
Exit, Stage Right
O, hear the multitudes of “Person>Woman>Man>Camera>TV” songs ring across the land.
They should be played over loudspeakers at protests, VERY LOUD, to form background music
for the news blurbs he wants to orchestrate, like a double prism, creating fake reality with false sound.
Demonstrators could bring big blowers to spray fake chemical pot vapors at the secret troops,
countering tear gas and making the bogus forces fear loss of reality. Protestors dressed
in camouflage and helmets, with rubber clubs, should be introduced to further turn it toward dada.
The French wrote the book!
Bring pets ! Will ‘Op Legend’ teargas dogs?? Grandmas? Mayors? (check), children?, Russians?
Bring dolls dressed up to look like real babies and see how many get hit by rubber bullets.
Fauci puppets, people in masks of US legends…John Glenn, Bob Dole, Ronnie, GHW, Ike, Abe, Nixon.
When attacked, cover yourselves with fake blood. Lie down in the streets. Revolution is Theatre !!!!
Act up now!